Bent Words

Bent Words

June 05, 2013

It seems never ending and nearly impossible. Like a dream you're reminded of in the middle of the day but can't quite recall premise. It's just too far away to reach now.

The house we were going to purchase, which we had just visited hours before, burnt down on May 18, ten days prior to our closing. Everything was finished, save for a few minor details -- such as signing -- and I was beginning to imagine the layout of our first house. Where our family photos would hang in the wide hallway, how our basement we would be organized, where would put our first Christmas tree. Our prime location would have been perfect for parades and parks -- all within walking distance -- and we could see, when drove by, families out on their daily walks and how we would fit right in.

Em would have an endless choice of children to play with, a library to walk to, an ice cream truck to run up to, a community to watch over her. I was beginning to see it all.

Until my boss, who lives nearby, called to say our future home was up in flames.

And what, really, are the effing odds that this would happen twice? So I did not believe her. I ignored my husband when he confirmed it and I scoffed at all the sympathizing commentary when word got out. All the people with their trite and removed words of "wisdom."
It was meant to be or this is part if God's plan or at least you weren't living there yet.

Yeah, well, that may have sufficed for the first loss but now I'm just pissed. To lose that dream, that perfect picture in my head. Again. I don't want to hear it was meant to be and I know you couldn't understand but there's no comfort in that now. There's just anger melded with the pending doom of continued loss. My gut feels as though it is rolling in waves of disappointment and worry over the next thing that will surely go all wrong. There is no comfort or encouragement or absolute "everything will be just fine."

I try to keep up this bogus positive attitude that's covered almost purely in doubt. And it would be impossible to be able to entirely portray these pending apprehensions for who could understand quite fully this particular fear of loss? I worry every day about someone or something taking away what's mine; the few precious things that are. I worry someone is going to break in and take it all away again, the bits and pieces I've accumulated since losing everything. My memories, my moments in history, my comfort and hard, hard work.

Although a million times more tragic, I equated it to the woman who, when she was four, lost her entire family in a plane crash that cruelly entitled her the sole survivor. When asked if she now contains a fear of flying, she replied that she does not. "I figure I've had my allotment of tragedy. What are the odds it would happen again?"


But let's not count our chickens, hey.

So now we are in the process of purchasing a new house. Part of me wants to laugh and quote Monty Python. "I built a castle.... And it sank into the swamp. So I built another castle. And IT sank into the swamp...." Another part of me doubts the whole thing. And still another part of me knows that this is another compromise in the vast sea of give-and-take to which I have resigned myself to. For there are no libraries, no parks, no wide hallways or neighborhood sidewalks in this particular dream. Sure, there are other positive dimensions to this home but its not the home I had in mind.

And with our agents playing school yard games of keep away, perhaps this won't be the house at all. Perhaps we are just going through the mundane motions of buyer vs. seller only to be stripped of our hard work once again and without sympathy or recourse.

That's how the ball bounces, how the cookie crumbles, how the pickle squirts. That's life. You keep building castles, never knowing when they're going to sink, going back to work as though nothing ever happened, smiling because you're expected to, living because you must. Roll with punches, right?

Well there are only so many punches I can take.

It's like being pregnant and always worrying, with heightened emotion, if the baby is okay. The fear of not knowing or seeing it all pan out correctly and the one day that goes by without that precious little zygote kicking up a storm, you find yourself desperate to make her move. You take a sip of coffee or down a snickers bar or call your OB because you're certain something bad has occurred.

That's how I feel every day.


And that's how it shall remain until this castle is born.

Written at 6:02 a.m.